Chapter 2 - THE WOMAN WHO REMEMBERED TOO MUCH
Victoria Kensington recovered quickly.
She was thirty-eight, the daughter of a wealthy New York developer, and had been appearing beside Damian at charity dinners for nearly a year.
The newspapers called her his future wife.
Damian had never publicly confirmed it.
Victoria behaved as though the wedding date was merely waiting for his approval.
“Clara,” she said sweetly, “shouldn't you be helping in the kitchen?”
Clara remained still.
Damian answered before she could.
“She's speaking with me.”
Victoria's smile tightened.
“Of course.”
Then she looked at the saucer.
“How charming. A family recipe.”
Clara watched her carefully.
“Yes.”
Victoria's fingers tightened around her evening bag.
“I'm sure your mother would be proud.”
The words sounded ordinary.
But something in her voice made Clara's skin prickle.
“My mother is dead,” Clara said.
Victoria's expression changed.
“Oh.”
Damian looked at Clara.
“When?”
“Two years ago.”
“I'm sorry.”
Clara swallowed.
“She was killed in a hit-and-run.”
Victoria looked toward the hallway.
For the first time, she seemed eager to leave.
“How terrible.”
Damian's gaze shifted toward her.
“Victoria, please return to our guests.”
She hesitated.
Then obeyed.
***
When they were alone, Damian pulled a chair away from the table.
“Sit, if you'd like.”
Clara remained standing.
“I came here because of my mother.”
“I suspected that.”
She stared.
“You knew?”
“Not until tonight.”
He looked toward the open doorway.
“But no one takes a housemaid position here for eleven months while hiding a university degree and a culinary apprenticeship without a reason.”
Clara went still.
Damian continued.
“Your employment file lists three years at a bakery in Albany. It doesn't mention that you trained under a pastry chef in Manhattan.”
Her pulse accelerated.
“You investigated me?”
“Security verifies employees.”
“Then why didn't you know who my mother was?”
His expression darkened.
“That's a question I'm asking myself.”
***
Clara reached into her apron pocket.
She withdrew a photograph.
A young woman stood in the Costello kitchen, smiling beside a ten-year-old boy holding a birthday cake.
Joanne Hughes.
Damian Costello.
Twenty years younger.
Damian took the photograph carefully.
His face changed.
“I remember this day.”
Clara said nothing.
“My father was away. My mother was ill. Joanne made me a birthday dinner because nobody else remembered.”
He swallowed.
“She gave me a book.”
Clara looked up.
“What book?”
“A collection of old American folk stories.”
Her heart tightened.
“My mother kept the receipt.”
Damian stared.
“Why?”
“She said some gifts matter more than their price.”
For a moment, he looked away.
Then he said:
“Your mother was kind to me.”
Clara's voice hardened.
“Then why did your family destroy her life?”
Damian closed his eyes.
“I intend to find out.”
***
Later that night, Damian summoned his longtime house manager, Arthur Bell.
Arthur was sixty-four, silver-haired, and had served the Costello family for more than thirty years.
When Damian mentioned Joanne Hughes, Arthur's face went pale.
“Miss Hughes?” he repeated.
“Yes.”
Arthur looked toward the door.
“I haven't heard that name in years.”
Damian studied him.
“Why was she dismissed?”
Arthur hesitated.
“Your father accused her of taking a valuable necklace.”
“Which necklace?”
“The sapphire pendant belonging to your mother.”
Damian frowned.
“My mother's pendant was recovered.”
Arthur went still.
“When?”
“After her death. It was in her jewelry box.”
Silence filled the room.
Then Damian asked:
“If the necklace was never missing, why was Joanne accused?”
Arthur's hands began trembling.
“I don't know, sir.”
Damian leaned forward.
“Arthur.”
The older man swallowed.
“There were other things happening in the house.”
“What things?”
Arthur looked toward the hallway.
Then whispered:
“Your father was afraid someone had found the ledger.”
Damian stared.
“What ledger?”
May you like
Arthur closed his eyes.
“The one Joanne Hughes was supposed to destroy.”
